


Wanderlust

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Armin Arlert, Child Eren Yeager, Child Mikasa Ackerman, Childhood Trauma, Dad Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Forced Prostitution, Introvert Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), M/M, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Police Officer Jean Kirstein, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Therapist Erwin Smith, Vomiting, Writer Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-01-02 09:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21159290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: (Nothing is explicit, but please be aware of the trigger warnings and be careful. Your health is important to me.)When Levi gets a wild hair up his butt to adopt three kids and raise them on his own, he realizes there are some things he simply can't overcome. At least, not without help.





	1. Chapter 1

Rain pitters on the peeling wood of his porch. It streams down his windows and across his roof. It pools in the leaves of his herbs and flowers’ petals. Drumming in his ears, the cascading water from the fog-like clouds above him almost drowns the children's voices. They laugh, and their feet pound against the dirt. Eren and Mikasa like the rain much more than little Armin, who would prefer to sit under the awning and read a book. 

Levi wants to be present, he always does, but something about the rain takes him far away. He was racing past trees and legs that looked too much like them. He was whipped by the wind and stray branches flying with it. He was sliding in the mud and coating his fingers in blood. Something had snapped in his chest, but the pain did nothing to deter him from unleashing a scream of agony beyond anything he felt physically. He doesn’t remember much about being in the air; he remembers the feel of his swords in his hands, the heat of titan steam, but he can’t conjure any visual memories. He can’t remember the variant’s face or the opened meat of its arm. He can’t remember it roaring or the sound of it hitting the wet ground, only his own knees and then the world is back. It tilts around him, blurs at the edges, but he can remember seeing it. Now, it’s his hands he can’t feel. He can’t feel his face, either. He doesn’t feel the tears running through rainwater on his nose, but he sees the fog of his breath mixing with the decaying steam of the titan. He sees his family, his home. They’re both missing most for their bodies, and he can’t bear to look them in the eye. His gaze follows a fly crawling, wings limp and damp, over a dirty cheek before he turns away with a heavy heart. There’s not enough rage in him to fight like before, swallowed by sorrow and guilt. 

He thinks of Erwin. He thinks he sees him. Armin’s hair bobs in front of Levi, wet and floppy like dog ears framing his face. 

Blinking at the boy, Levi can only hum, not trusting his own voice. He rarely trusts himself to look into those big blue eyes and say the right thing. “Daddy, we’re getting cold.” He can’t be sure how long they’ve all been standing out in the storm, but he knows he isn’t dressed for it. Luckily, he had half a mind to properly clothe his kids. Sometimes he worries he’ll be gone, staring right at them, and not see them getting into trouble. So far, he hadn’t come back to any broken bones, so he’ll count his blessings. 

He gets them all inside, washed, and dried. Setting them in front of the telly with peanut butter sandwiches is a small apology for leaving them, even if it was relatively harmless. They look confused but are quickly distracted by the bright colours and loud, high-pitched children’s songs. He knows that there’s not anything especially dangerous about their home, now. They can go outside and dance and play without a care in the world. They don’t have to fear the looming walls or the ravenous monsters behind them. 

He inspects the cracks in his nails as he washes his hands, still feeling mud-caked underneath, between gritted teeth, and under his feet as he sinks into it. 

Quickly, he goes to his bedroom to change clothes and open his laptop, his hair still dripping in front of his eyes. He has to write everything down. The daydreams of fights in the rain are usually the same- he’s agonised over today’s memory countless times- but the habit is set, and he finds it strangely therapeutic. Putting everything down in black and white makes the images lose a little of their colour. With the noise of kiddie cartoons filtering through the walls, it’s hard to be devastated, and he can think of it as just another story. His fingers flit across the keyboard in a flourish of unfeeling inspiration. This makes him feel powerful, makes him feel redeemed. He’s creating something, instead of killing. He’s a composer of the most complicated music anyone’s heard. 

His publisher, however, likes to constrict his creative freedom. 

“Listen, Levi,” She had said over the phone, “People are getting tired of the series. The earlier books were so great, but maybe you need to take a step back from it? You seem like you’re losing your grasp of the plot. Stop while you're ahead, and start something new.” 

She’s usually that pushy, starting with a suggestion, critiquing, and ending with a demand. He supposes it is her job, but he can’t find it in himself not to get annoyed by her. Meeting her for the first time, he had tried to ignore the nasally, bitchy tone- chalked it up to nerves and a bad first impression- but time had not done her any favours, in his opinion. They’d only become more tired of each other, as the years went on. Maybe he needs a new publisher. 

He hears Mikasa and Eren start arguing over sharing a blanket, and closes his laptop. He’s surprised he didn’t notice that the T.V. is turned off, probably by Armin, who dislikes there being too much noise. He hasn’t finished writing, but it doesn’t feel as urgent, anymore. Standing, he rounds the corner in the hall leading to the living room and separates the two before asking them about what started it. When they both answer at the same time Armin thankfully waves for their attention to tell their father what’s going on. 

“Daddy, Mika wouldn’t leave Eren alone when he asked, but Eren pushed her down, so now they are both sad and angry.” Armin’s tone is something of a whimper, which only makes matters worse. He can’t stand when his children don’t get along, especially if it becomes a physical altercation. It doesn’t matter if they’re just children, if no one was really hurt, he still disliked it greatly. 

“Eren, you know better than to put your hands on anyone like that.” 

“But Mikasa wouldn’t listen when I told her no!” And there’s the kicker. Levi’s always been adamant about defending yourself. How is he supposed to explain to a traumatized seven-year-old that there’s usually a fine line between someone invading your space in an inappropriate way and a sibling being too persistent over an innocent cuddle? 

“And she should have. But, she wasn’t hurting you, was she?” The question was meant to be rhetorical, but Eren hangs his head with a small shake, his mop of chocolate brown hair swaying. “She’s your little sister. She just wants to show you that she cares. You were right to politely ask her to stop, but hitting is too much, even if she doesn’t listen. You know to get me if anything’s wrong.” He turns to Mikasa, who watched as Eren was scolded for shoving her with her chin raised. When she meets her father's eyes, however, her gaze suddenly drops. “As for you. You know better than to keep trying to hug someone who asked not to be. Don’t you?” This time he isn’t being rhetorical, yet Mikasa doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look at him, instead choosing to watch her toes twist over the carpet. Levi sighs, exhausted in mind and body. He needs help. 

He refuses to ask for it. A baby sitter has never sounded appealing to him. He could never trust a stranger with these three. They’re his kids, and no one else wanted them while they were in the foster care system, so why should he try to pawn them off now? Why should he make it seem like he’s even further away than he already is? It felt like abandonment. It felt like a betrayal. They need him. Not a nanny. 

“Mikasa, explain to me why you thought it was okay to touch him without his permission.” He knows she doesn’t like being away from Eren- her separation anxiety is a borderline disorder- but she can’t act like this when Eren has a phobia of being trapped. This vicious cycle rolls around every day, and it needs to stop somewhere. He’s failing them, and they’re hurting each other, and they’re all in so much pain. When she doesn’t even look up, he takes Eren’s hand and leaves the room, leaving Armin to help Mikasa not panic. As long as someone’s with her, she doesn’t have much of a problem. They don’t follow him and Eren, and he hears the television switch back on. 

He half-closes the door to his room before kneeling in front of Eren. No one is panicking, and that’s good. That’s progress. Still, the angry set to Eren’s little red face has him concerned. “You know your boundaries, and you established them to Mikasa. This is your space, and she was wrong to try hurting that. That doesn’t make hurting her back okay. Do you hear me?” He keeps his tone even, his question sincere, and sits back on the heel of his foot as he waits for Eren to take his breaths. The boy’s gotten better at calming himself down. 

Levi feels like he sometimes blows their little spats out of proportion. Maybe it would be better if he let them hash it out like other children? But, most children don’t wake up screaming, hyperventilating, or trembling silently in conditioned fear. Most children haven’t been kidnapped, beaten, or witness to a murder. It would be just their luck that even in a second life they weren’t given peaceful childhoods. 

When Eren nods in answer, wiping his warm cheeks with his fists in embarrassment, Levi stands and hands him a throw pillow from his bed to squeeze the life out of. The kid buries his face in the soft material, not liking to show any weakness; but, when his feelings or his bubble are ignored he gets very emotional. 

Being so young (in a safe environment) must be great because not five minutes later Eren has tossed the pillow back onto Levi’s bed and is running around as if nothing happened. Mikasa hasn’t apologized, but he supposes that if Eren can let it go, he can, too. 

Sitting on the couch, Levi watches the kids make a cushion fort, tying blankets around their shoulders and welding pool noodles. He doesn’t know if they’re superheroes, pirates, or knights, but it becomes increasingly unimportant as his eyelids drag over his eyes, lulled by the sound of their play.


	2. Chapter Two

Black, red, and yellow rain boots splash through the puddles pooling on the sidewalk. Eren runs ahead as far as Levi will allow, and Mikasa follows while Armin hugs his hand. The sound of their boots squeaking and the sight of the rippling water make his mind wander. White pants, leather boots, and khaki jackets lying under dripping roofs mask the colourful windbreakers and little hands groping for his attention. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” Levi has to blink several times before the world comes back into focus. Eren’s standing in his way, jumping and grabbing at the air. “Up!” With a sigh, he complies with the child’s wish, even if he’s getting a bit old to be carried. It doesn’t help that Mikasa insists on joining. Maybe I’m the one getting too old, he thinks. Armin seems content to walk at his side without his hand being held, and Levi hopes that the park isn’t much farther. 

When they reach it, he can just sit on the bench and lose himself. At least ten other parents are around, mostly mothers, who pay more attention than he feels able to. Armin sits beside him, holding his book to his chest as Mikasa clings to Eren’s blanket at home. He wishes he had something to cling to, something that brought him comfort. He feels almost disconnected from his body, like a radio station just out of range and full of static. But, he has responsibilities. He can’t keep playing catch-up with the real world when he has three children relying on him. 

He looks down at Armin and wonders, not for the first time, if the boy would be less distant if he were more involved. But, he’d read that being a child’s only friend didn’t actually help them. Yes, Armin did have his siblings, but if Armin didn’t learn to make friends on his own- Well, it wasn’t as if Levi could show him how to befriend ten-year-olds. Levi couldn’t even bring himself to talk to most adults. 

Something in the back of his mind tells him nothing can replace his comrades. 

Mouths the size of houses and fingers thicker than his body rain blood on his mind, showering his memories in red. A Squad Leader, a Commander, a scientist; his friends. Walls, wells, and roofs where everything was stained. Grass he never took for granted and skies he never grew tired of watching became shadowed and sticky. His hands, heavy and crossed with scars, soak with the winged crests he tries to gather into his arms. There’s too many to hold, too much loss to be held accountable for. But, he keeps cutting down enemies and cutting out insignias. Over and over, in an endless loop until it’s his wings that fall and get carved out of his chest. 

His ribs shudder and ache around his insides. He feels hands on his back, and his tongue burns almost as badly as his throat as stomach acid pushes out of his mouth. Worried mothers and their kids stare, and most back away, but a few kneel beside him and try getting him to answer questions; if it was something he ate, if they need to call his wife, so on and so forth. He can’t listen to it. He can’t look up at the three pairs of eyes that both haunt him and are his home. Waving off the fretting bunch, trying to be polite about it, he pushes himself up and dusts off his palms and knees. As he avoids looking at the small puddle of vomit, at his kids who shuffle awkwardly forward, he marches away. Eren is the first to cling to his pant leg, then Mikasa and Armin on his other side. 

All he wants is a shower. As soon as he unlocks the front door, his knees turn to jelly and he shuts himself in the bathroom. He can hear the kids make it to their bedroom and close the door, and after that, he thinks of nothing but rainwater and the taste and smell of blood. He hates living like this. 

All of that pain should be in the past. All of the hurt, loss, and guilt should be relegated to that past life. All of the blood that stained him isn’t real. Not really, not anymore. So, why does he still feel it under his nails? Why does he still taste it on his tongue, feel it itching under his skin as it evaporates or dries. 

Eren, Armin, and Mikasa, too. Their lives shouldn’t have been so hard, from the start. Their childhoods shouldn’t have followed the same paths as their previous ones. He despises all of it. Reluctantly, though, he admits he should have expected it when he adopted the three “troubled” children. He also hated that. Listening to those workers label his kids something so minor and yet so accusatory. It rang the same way as “problem child” did, in his ears. It made it sound as if they were the trouble. They didn’t deserve that. 

Levi knows he shouldn’t be surprised about their childhoods. His was almost the same, if not for being above ground. He remembers his mother bringing men home, seeing her get hurt, getting hurt himself. He remembers one man, older than her usual clients. He'd paid her, but when he saw Levi, he stopped asking to go to her room with her; she was the one who started to plead with him. He stared at Levi, asked to see him, all of him, and when she refused he only gave her more money until she cried. 

Levi knows he shouldn’t, yet he wishes for things to be different all the same. 

Sometimes he can’t tell what’s a memory from this life and what’s from the past, especially where his childhood is concerned. It all felt the same. He sighs, running his hands over his face, then up and through his hair. He hasn’t even undressed yet, but his roots are damp. He realizes he’s been sweating and cringes, tugging his collar from where it sticks to his skin. His shirt slides uncomfortably against his slick back, and he hurries to get in the tub. 

After a short, cold shower, he goes into the kitchen. He guesses the kids have got to be hungry, even if they haven’t come around to complain. Usually, when they really need something, they can snap him out of whatever stupor he’s worked himself into. A large, dark part of himself rears its head, saying they shouldn’t have to, that he’s a failure, that he’s only exasperating their trauma. He hates that the rest of him agrees. 

Three plates covered in grilled cheese triangles later, he watches his children happily munch on their lunches. Mikasa’s socked feet swing under her chair, making her bounce in her seat. Armin’s legs are curled underneath him, boosting himself up. Eren’s feet are bare, no matter how often Levi says he should wear his socks. Usually, the three are excitedly talking to each other about their latest favourite thing or bickering, but today the table is quiet. Levi worries, leaning back in his chair and looking from one bowed head to the next. They’re all smiling, not sulking, but they aren’t being rowdy. 

“What did you brats do while I was washing?” All three of them shake their heads in unison. Suspicious. 

After dinner, he finds out what they did. There’s a knock on the door that startles him so badly he drops the plate he was washing, cursing as it shatters in the sink. He rushes to look out the window, his eyes widening at the sight of the police cruiser parked in his driveway. He dries his hands, dropping the towel over the faucet. Taking a few steadying breaths, he walks calmly to the door, unlocking the deadbolt and knob, only opening it enough to peek out at the uniform. “Officer…” He stares at the badge on his chest, the radio on his shoulder, and the crest on his sleeve. Anywhere but his face. 

He shies a bit behind the door at the rough clearing of the man’s throat. He has no reason to worry, but he’s never had the best experiences with police, past or present life. “Captain.” That gives him pause, and his eyes jump to Jean’s face without him meaning to look. 

Jean Kirstein is smiling down at him, brow raised in that cocky way it always was. Levi blinks rapidly to clear his vision of the long hair and bearded face he remembers seeing last, of the blood and lines of pain. Jean’s clean-shaven with his hair in his old crewcut. His eyes are tired, but not glazed with death. If anything, Jean looks happy. It’s not something Levi expected. 

“I got a call from here saying there was a disturbance?” He can see it in Jean’s smile that he’s pulling Levi’s leg. The brat. “Mind if I come in?” Jean’s voice dips into something soft and genuine, and Levi doesn’t like how his chest tightens. He nods, mute, and steps aside. Heeled shoes click against his wood floor, obviously freshly cleaned. He doesn’t want to think Jean did that for him. “How are you, Sir?” 

“Please don’t call me that.” Levi doesn’t mean for his voice to be pleading, so he resolves himself to hold his tongue. Jean’s smile fades, and a firm, warm hand lands on his shoulder, giving him an apologetic squeeze. Levi doesn’t know if it’s worse than a spoken apology. 

“I guess you didn’t see the note before the rascals got a hold of it. I didn’t expect it to be a bunch of kids that called me.” Levi leaves him in the living room, heading back to the kitchen to turn on the stove and put a kettle on for tea. He can hear the couch squeak when Jean sits. “Imagine my surprise when one of them told me, “Daddy Levi’s sick.” I had to convince my Lieutenant to let me go early. Where are the ankle-biters, anyway?” Levi walks down the hall without answering to knock on his kids’ door, and they don’t ask any questions when they come bursting out, running up to the officer they have no idea is an old friend. “Hey, there!” Hanging back in the hallway, he listens as Jean teases the three, as he drags giggles from Armin and playful whispers from Mikasa. 

When Levi comes back to himself long enough to hear the kettle whistle, he catches a glimpse of Jean forcing a smile onto Eren’s sour face, tickling him where the seven-year-old is sitting in his lap. 

With tea made and no more excuses of other things to do left, he comes to sit in one of his armchairs. He watches Jean play with the kids, all four of them now rolling around on the floor, building with Lincoln Logs, and flipping through superhero colouring books. They seem at home, more so than Levi feels. He notices a longing behind Jean’s eyes, whether for himself or the children he used to know, he’s not sure. He doesn’t let them get to bickering, playfully flashing his badge before letting the three pass it around for a better look. 

It’s not long before the kids get sleepy, a little cranky, and Levi sends them to bed with some helpful words from Jean about minding their father when they try to argue. It takes longer than usual, though, to get them washed and dressed for bed. They’re excited about having a guest, which Levi understands. He never invites people over, and whenever they want to see someone from school, it’s always outside of the house. He suddenly remembers they have school in the morning, putting a new urgency in getting them to sleep on time. 

He and Jean settle on the couches again, the tea shared between them growing cold. Neither of them speaks for a while, and Levi’s content not to start any conversation until it’s an appropriate time to ask Officer Kirstein to leave. Jean has other ideas. 

“So, you’ve been raising them all on your own?” Levi just nods with a grunted reply. “How long?” 

“About two years, now.” 

Jean nods, contemplatively sipping at his drink. “How long have you been “sick”?” His voice is hesitant, but no less sure that he’ll get the answers he’s looking for. 

“I’m not sick.” Levi’s attempts to stunt the conversation have been unsuccessful so far, but that doesn't mean he’s going to start giving real answers now. 

“You don’t have to have a fever or a cough to be sick, Ca- Levi.” He leans over, sighing at the abandoned teacup. “You know, there are people who can help. You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to be “Humanity’s Strongest,” anymore. That was bullshit back then, too.” Levi knows that, knows the title meant nothing about who he was. But, it did mean something about how he had to act. He had to be hard, had to be unfeeling and strong. Jean scrapes his bottom lip with his teeth before opening his mouth again. “I’ve got a number if you’re interested. If not, I’m here. I can babysit, or just be an ear for you.” 

“I don’t need help.” He finally works up the nerve to say, “I think you should go, now,” and stands, politely guiding Jean out the door. Luckily, he doesn’t resist the dismissal, and Levi listens to the purr of the engine as Jean pulls away onto the road, driving off to wherever he will. 

Being alone again doesn’t hold the same comfort he thought it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's being safe and healthy during this hard time. Giving hugs online is completely acceptable, so have as many as you want from me!   
Hope this chapter was a pleasant surprise after so long, and sorry for the wait.


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